Farewell, My Dear Youth
by Leiiuen
Summary: Francis's hobby is to recreate famous paintings in his own way of art in what he calls 'greater than the original'. He comes across a famous painting from Britain called 'Blonde of Youth'. In recreating this painting, he writes Latin words that he copied from the original to make it more 'like the painting'. But instead, after bathing, he meets a no-winged angel & an empty canvas.
1. The blonde, released from its pigments

_Farewell, my dear youth - 3/25/14_

Theme to rival on while reading: 'Even if forever gone, they will always watch amongst you'

_Author's brief note: I have a habit in writing my stories in italics, so I apologize if it bothers you in any way. This is assumingly the second story I have written that may be pretty long but to also not that I haven't written in a very long while, so no harsh comments please. __France/England commentary._

_Chapter one: The blonde, released from its pigments _

_It was a heavy, yet warm spring rainfall. As the month of passerby April began to follow, the sprung about blooms roamed the mist, grassy fields, the weather at its moderate temperature, and the sky keeping its enlightened day color in set. _

_Portrayal mastering was his way in success. Francis, 'a youthful golden beauty for the good of mankind' he had been heard of as, was always the mental thought that a standardized, and well-made recreated portrait was the main path to substantial credit. To considerably quell the brush function of several versions in art, whether on canvas or potentially illustrating, he changes the original into his own decency of what he thinks is 'to triumph over'. From a well-known particular painting in Britain, 'Blonde of Youth', was the one he would drown for. To be able to reborn the elegance of the drawing took possibly much time and much effort all in one hand. To enhance the features of the portrait - enlightened emerald eyes, gold-stranded blond hair layered to a bobbed rose, and the skin, -nothing to be changed- the color of his pale, whitened skin was already remarkable in the right tone of acrylic. _

_But to recreate such an exquisite masterpiece into his own remarks, __**that **__was going to take much more detailed inking than from the printer itself -of all cases necessary- . _

_And his only way of getting the right picture into thought, he had to find -not a duplicate-, but the so known 'true' painting. However, for that to be a 'dream come-true' would mean taking a longing trip to the united Kingdom -where the real portrait was to be found-. _

_He lived in the profound cities of France himself, born and well-raised in the natural instincts of dramatic romance and capricious attitudes. Although it seemed that the UK wasn't as far as it so seemed -geographically wise-, it still didn't peaked to his mind as a very well-planned ideal to go into. And so, rejecting his quick ahead plotting, he managed to rummage out some clear cleansed paper, placing it underneath the rack - roughly mannered-, and motionlessly attempting the wait for the duplicate photograph to print it's way to his unsteady palms._

_Failure was plummeting immensely into his focus. Hopeless, after two restless -unslept- days passed by, checking every art textbook, print outs, and articles, he had yet to only come across cheap duplicate run outs. With his angered, heated grudge in non overcome, he crumpled the documents and texts scattered about his desktop one by one, toppling them into the trash bin harshly with the flung of a wrist. Heavily sighing in grief and running the dried palm over his soaked silk hair of golden-tint blonde, he slouched in his stool, unsure of what his next step would drag him through. His forehead had already been burned up intense from his utter frustration that couldn't be drought to end, and his limbs of forearms and shoulder muscles had become gravely weak in a matter of seconds. 'If only I had the real copy' was his only thought in his head as it throbbed achingly. He tried to think if he knew anyone -that he had met in the past- had lived in The United Kingdom, running his sight through online contacts with the elastic structured finger rolling the mouse scroll and quick paced in going through his phone contacts. Expanding his mind to considering there was no called 'friends' he had that lived in the UK after thirty-forty-nine minutes of his time being dumped down the gutter, he had suddenly came across one that bashed his attention. Reading the name 'William Raphiel' on the name indication and the direct location being 'East of United Kingdom/England', his eyes batted wide in revelation. _

_Tensely in his arm length velocity, he pounded down on the lighting 'green' call button and nudged his ear to the phone -rushed in gliding his long hair laying in the way of his aural faculty-, impatience running in his blood flow. 'ringing' ...'ringing'..' the phone vibrated loudly and rung against his thumping rhythmic drums, and before he about snapped in exasperation of the long awaited answer, he stood in complete stillness as heard someone pick up. _

_For knowing assumingly, he might be able to get a shot glimpse of the depiction he longed for._

_Enlivened in touch of the duplicate -a duplicate with no screwed up prints or missing impact-, he was once again, gracefully inspired to design his own remake of the painting without any missing touches to its radiant piece. Grabbing his set of wash-dried brushes, case of assorted acrylic paint tubes, fold-up wooden easel, and a plastic range to place the paints in for creating different mixtures of color tones, he sat the painting on the side rim of his counter -where a sink was built in, filled with acrylic and watercolor dirtied cups that laid in dyed staining water-, and began his eye-opening masterpiece without worrying about blotching the color induced pigments on his crisp clothes._

_It was stated as irrevocably concluded. Francis had just finished his recreation of 'Blonde of Youth' on his gradient textured canvas, now fulfilled in daubs of exhilarating colorations, and had been continuously yet vigorously scrubbing the existing tint attached to his chilled lightened skin. Turning the cold water knobs off -saving warm waters for the shower-, he smudges his palms onto his cloudy garb to remove the trickled waters running down his arm and fingers. Grabbing a ribbon-like strip of carmine, he wraps his frilled, waved hair in a low pony-tail and finalizing it into looped knot -leaving out the leftover end strips to lay out-. Ambling his way to the sent photograph -bordered by his 'friend' as well in rust-like lustrous yellow-, he lifted it with his almost dried hands, and stared a back and forth assurance, making sure he got as much of the real work into his unsurely ended portrait. Tilting the border slightly, on the very back, wrote Latin words in quotes. "Ut denuo renascatur " was what he saw in a sideways glance. In wonder to what it might have been said about, he walked to his monitor settled on his lamp desktop, and swung himself into the twist and turns of his cushioned wheel chair. Miraculously typing in the letter buttons of the keyboard, he rewrote the Latinized words 'Ut denou renascatur' and tried to translate it in English terms of wording. Clicking the 'enter' key in one tap, he tilted addled to what he read, perusing the words 'To be reborn once more'. 'what is this supposed to relate to the representation?' he thought bewildered of, one hand to his angled chin, and the other trotting fingers reasonably on the exterior of the desk. _

_Ruminating in thoughts, he __**did **__wanted his version of 'Blonde of Youth' to at least have all the original's criteria, so in his slight remark of hesitance, he made the decision in writing the foreign words of the surface of the canvas with a thick, black permanent marker in calligraphic writing._

_After writing the set of words down, spell-checked and in quotes, he drove himself off into the bathing room. Turning the hot water knob on, stripping his grimed clothes off -including untying his hair from its enclosure-, and stepping his feet into the heated fog of mist that blurred the wall mirror._

_Yet to have never noticed an unlikely-visible figure laid miserably by his stand-tall easel, panting in each harsh breath it took. _

_'Ce qui dans les cieux appellent..' was the only thing he could say once he had walked out of the bathe, fully clothed in a light cobalt polo, charcoal-threaded jeans, and ebony slip-on socks to walk in home. He glared at the bloodless appealing body stunningly, finding fluttering-soft ivory feathers fall one by one from the toxicities of fresh pigments. But in his more astonishment did he find the work he painted through hours for had completely vanished from the canvas, along with the __**permanent **__Latin words of inking. He could only see the uncolored cover of white, however, an eye-popper once he sees a collision of mixed induced colorants drip down the legs of the easel and creating a puddle-like surrounding around the pale laid body. _

_Dropping his dirtied clothes down in shear panic -feeling dumbfound for having to let the poor man lay there helpless and unsteady-, he scooped the peaceful-enclosed eyed 'angel' -all his feathers fallen to a naked back of enlightened skin- in his arms with paint from the puddle dripping down his elbows. He walked rapid in speed, back into the bathing room, and set him down gently into the isolation of the tub. Bringing down the showerhead, he cringed his hands for hot water, and pulling up the nozzle, he washed down all the mess of fresh color off the angelic man's pure skin down the drain hole. He rustled his blonde gold-strand hairs, letting the steaming water drip down the back of his neck, off the tips of his short ends. Scrubbing the last of the rough paint off his earlobe with a soaked washrag, he pushed down the nozzle with a thud, turning the hot water knob to a stop of pouring, and placing the showerhead on the tub floor. _

_Grasping one of the corners of a dry towel -plain whole crimson-, he wrapped the blonde in a towel and heaved him out of the tub -cautiously attempting to not bump his head into the tile-shower walls-. Lifted in the arms once more, head rested on a shoulder, he places him down lento onto a Korean-style heated blanket. Pulling off a plaid quilt that rested on the back cushions of his living-room couch, he covers the blonde snug in warmth, and inserts the heat-blanket plug into the power outlet -setting the heat rise to a moderate four-. _

_He stares down deeply at how peaceful the man looked while in slumber, calmed to know that his chest was thudding -to know he was breathing normally to his peer-. The water from the tips of his shortened bangs trickle down his rose-faded cheeks, and Francis led a cold hand to feel the warmth of his smooth, silk-like skin. His heart throbbed a beat 'thump-thump' as he felt himself melt in the body heat._

_He dropped the hand as he saw the blonde scrunch his face, paranoid, and shifted his body the other direction to face the base of the couch. He watched him amiably in gentle expression, pushing himself off the ground from his kneeled position, and walked out to the kitchen floors to wipe off the paint that stained his forearms and elbows -not even to worry about asking questions of who the person was or where he came from-._

_He could only wait for his awakening to near for good explanations._

_He woke up hazily in sight to overlook an unfamiliar room he seemed to have his body settled upon. To his instinct of sensitive feel, he had notified himself to be fully-naked, yet clothed in a layer of some wide, rough bristled rag and another 'rag' over it, only decorative and had been bordered in threads of glaring gold and green spools with splitting ends. His skin felt brush burned and blood warm, lifting his hands raised up from under the 'rags', he felt the touch of his hair to be strangely damped but naturally more silken than it would be. _

_Forcefully sitting up straight, he earned a light yawn in his tone of voice. He took a hand to strip off the 'decorative rag' as some of the strings border were torn away, and having his two hands hold the small 'rag' to cover his exposed area. He titled and curved in stance but managed to get through the struggle of walking casually. Leisurely making small steps, he made the way to the frigid chill of the floor boards onto his weak, padded feet. He glanced around the whole scenery of the kitchen - warm cup of coffee with freshened steam airing about, the dishwasher rumbling in sound, and the toasty air current moving swiftly against his neck and reddened-shoulder caps. _

_He was dumbfounded in everything that was gathered around him, but also, not knowing where he were. He walked along the crease of the wood flooring, dragging the towel around his waist along, to the small round table seated on top of a neatly patterned designed rug. Wriggling the chair outwards, he seated himself on the cold base -bumps chilling up his arms and raising the shortened hairs on his neck-, sitting patiently -hands in his lap folded proper-. _

_He had been set for twenty-four minutes now and haven't heard the arrival of anyone yet. He saw that the steam over the cup of coffee had become lukewarm on the counter, the dishwasher slowing down in its quick pace of water spray, and the warm air vents automatically shutting off -leaving the current to flow shivering again-. _

_While being wondrous in his head, he notice the flickering light above him. The lights above the round table was running out of energy source and was flashing on and off just enough to shut down. Unable to reach sight of the profound light above his scalp, he wraps his 'rag' -towel- tightly firm around his waist from looseness, and pushing himself up to his shivering legs to stand on the seat._

_Having his left hand perched onto the rounded edge of the table, he leaned over to bring his right hand up, to touch the gleaming light he desired to closer see. He tapped the outside glass piece first, feeling the heat immediately from usage and pulling back his hand cautiously. Moving his arm back over again, he was able to handle the burning sensation and grinned, having a gentle grasp of the bulb. He tried pulling it out of its place, but it only dangled the chains that kept it held up. Eventually, after much inspired thinking, he was able to twist the hot bulb out. Once he had finally had hold of it, the light in the kitchen dimmed and the illuminating sun that shone from the glass bulb had vanished in fade disappearance._

_He was puzzled by why the light would go out in a jiff like that. He glared at the bulb in suspicion, wondering what it could be made of or how it was able to glow as bright as the stars at night. The inside seemed hollow sounding when he shook it against his ear for hearing. _

_Shaking it roughly back and forth again for any sounds, he heard a faint chime of laughter. His eyes widen, in astonishment. Thinking it's the bulb making the odd signs of laughter, he shakes it even more, only to hear louder voices of echoing laughter._

_The difference was that the laughter had been coming from behind. _

_The blonde froze in his stature, unsure of what he should do. Someone was __**definitely **__behind him at the very moment and although he had been embarrassed, he was also unlikely frightened of what awaited behind his back. Making an unnerving turn, legs changing its stiff position, he switched from having his back towards the voice to having his face directly at attention. _

_His eyes were broad open, having his childlike eyes exposed to Francis._

_Francis was astounded as quick as the sun falls, to have his sight on the enlightening emerald eyes he had painted hours before it had mysteriously vanished into a puddle of melted pigments. 'There's no possible way' he thought._

_The blonde looked exactly, no, more like spot on to the portrait 'Blonde of Youth' that he desirably loved. Francis was in an utter loss of words to what he was seeing. At first, since the eyes were completely shut, he wasn't able to see the similar eyes in his view at all. But now at this moment, the comparisons are no doubt, true to the perfect tone. _

_The skin was in its perfection of pale ivory, the eyes in shade of green emerald, and the hair layered perfectly in straight bangs, and rose to the top swift-like like a bob, golden-blonde to the everlasting touch. _

_In their meeting, things were going to get oddly uncomfortable for a while. _

_For on the rebirth, he had met the youthful angel, shimmering in the dim lights before him._

_Translations__ - _

_'ce qui dans les cieux appellent.. - what in heaven's name.._


	2. From out of the world we call

_Author's note: My testing is finished, but there still is a ton of work I have piling up one by one. I'm doing all I can to keep updated with this story since I have bailed on the several past ones I've done._

_Chapter summary: Francis takes the reasonable urge to speak to the now-awakened blonde that stood in his kitchen floors. However, not only at his attempt, he will be able to know not only this man's name, but the unbelievable world from which he came from that could have been obvious to begin with, but hesitated to believe in so. _

_Chapter two: From out of the world we call 'fictional art'_

_The sign of gloaming colored clouds had been reeling in as thunder bounced off the grounds in the shake of force from a far distance. Dusk wind blew harshly against the screen doors that Francis had to walk his way over, ignoring the starting converse between him and the fearful viridescent eyes in watch, pulling the solid glass door over the screen door -locking in down firmly- and covering it over with a casual pea green curtain. _

_Shutting out all the outside sounds of distant thundering, sprinkles of trickling rain against the screening, and the tree's swaying the rain off in mist-like substance, the room was in its substantial silence once more. _

_Francis wanted to wonder why his weather on the channel news never notified that unbeatable winds were going to be thrashing precipitation in his area, but he shook his head out of the mere gutter, and focused on the true conflict on what was really going on. He watched the bloke tremble in his stance and was oddly unsure what he should say even though he had planned his inner thoughts to speak about._

_Minutes to almost a peering hour of tranquility was moving by and nothing had been accomplished but suspenseful stares. Francis had to say something..he had to! A blonde hombre that was __**completely **__identical to his repainted canvas, that had, note, vanished into clear white and to a multi-pigmented puddle around the body. Not only at that, but to add on that he was surrounded in light ivory cleansed feathers -that can't be identified where it came from-, and was in the narrow space of his existence in front of him. He cleared his throat slightly to make his words sound less scratchy to more understandable. Opening his mouth faintly and had begun to finally speak._

_"est-ce que désolé, mais je peux demander ce qu'est votre nom ?" he asked, not even being the bit intelligent to know that the man would not understand the language that is, French. And being exactly right, he didn't understand one small word that came from the slip of his lips. The blonde only stopped trembling, and tilted his head to the side in confusion that could only wanted Francis to face-palm himself. __**Of course! **__he just had to spill out French to the youth, and like __**that**__ was going to solve all worlds problems. _

_"c-can you maybe repeat that? I'm not so sure I can relate to what you are speaking of.."_

_The blonde had spoke in a quiet and gentle tone, being hesitant to completing many of his spoken words. But Francis was even more bewildered to hear his accent, British in every pitch was said. Sure, he thought, knowing that when it came to between French and British customs, it wasn't what you would call 'the foremost' type of conversation to lure into. But to see this man, yet short and seemingly innocent, he could never see the impression of the two vigorously getting into severe combat violence. _

_"sorry, sorry, I merely only asked for a name.."_

_"you mean...is this so called 'name' similar to the meaning title?"_

_Francis, although he wanted to crook his head to the side, he didn't bother wanting the rose-top to get flustered in what his problem could be from just a head movement. _

_"..I could say that a title.. can be similar to a name?"_

_"If name means title, then my what you would call 'name' is Arthur Elsen Kirkland, sir"_

_'Arthur Elsen Kirkland' Francis couldn't keep the name from sinking into his mind, for he found the name unique and well-planned for such a lovely being. Although he found his middle name, Elsen, to be rather feminine._

_"Sir, do you have a 'name' as well?"_

_Francis glanced upwards to see a hopeful stare in the leafy green eyes, glistening in the last dimmed lighting. He had a fist-tight grip on his towel, wrapped around his small waist quite sloppily, and stood bent in a close stance between them. It made him feel uncomfortable, to be watched in such a way. _

_"Ah well...my name is.. Francis...Francis Bonnefoy.."_

_Arthur's eyes had diverse in the hearing of the 'title' he desired to know. _

_"how fascinating! I never knew that young mortal beings had such good touch in their callings"_

_This is where Francis was fully muddled in his words. No one had ever spoke so.. 'professional' you could say, to him before. Although he knew that the British were rather elegant and proper in most several ways of manner, this kind of acting was surprisingly more odd than its average formality. And what did he mean by 'mortal beings'? This man is making himself so un-human to the natural society. _

_For he is even lucky that this man -referring to Francis himself-, hadn't dumped the blonde out of his rent. _

_He was every bit reluctant to even ask, but he went through with it because, you have to be honest, who would not question a sentence about being called a 'mortal being?' It was just not something you'd leave off out of the blue, certainly. _

_"what do you refer by the meaning 'mortal beings'?"_

_"what I refer to? obviously you and the other well-beings of the hominid kind"_

_"what do you possibly mean by that?"_

_At that very moment, Arthur had taken both of his small, delicate hands -grasping Francis's wrist-, and commanding his movement to walk his way of direction. Francis was most confused of what this man, no, more like a 'boy' in his actions, was taking him to. As he was forced in follow through the recognizable hallways of his own house, he saw upon the organized hangings of his artwork such as 'The goddess of love, Aphrodite' or 'The Sun God in his golden chariot'. He added on his gaze in the sight of his practice in realistic illustration when he was still taken in tutoring for art._

_Once he was all past, the messy-blonde had taken him to his artwork studio room, where the empty canvas still laid set on his never-to-be-closed easel, and statured on the now dried up paint glued to the floor. It triggered him in realization that he had never went to clean up the whole mess after the incident and felt like a halfwit. Arthur had lifted a finger and pointed at the whitened canvas in their space._

_"Do you see that canvas there?"_

_"yeah, why?"_

_"Depends, do you know the words 'Ut denou renascatur'?"_

_Francis had widened his eyes to the question he never would have thought to hear the Brit ask. 'how does he know about those words?' he thought to himself. 'he can't possibly know...it too...strange for that to be happening..'._

_"well, yes..I was the one who had written the exact words on my painting before it vanished onto the floor like a puddle of water" he said. "and then I had found you laying there, soaked in a variety of colors"_

_"I see, so because you wrote those words, I had been released out of the painting.."_

_Francis paused in a second. _

_"excuse me?"_

_As to there being a disturbing cessation in-between their converse. _

_"Francis, I'm merely an angel from just another simple painting, but ever since you had written the sentence of my rebirth...I had returned to the real world" he continued. "Ut denou renascatur means 'to be reborn once more'. Those were the last words I had said to the my friend before I had lost my wings. Since then, the portrait he did of me, he wrote those words on the canvas hidden by the wooden borders in the back"_

_Francis was utterly speechless. It was all too unrealistic, too sudden, too exciting into mention. The painting he much desired to see in real-life himself, the painting he longed to meet, was all right in-front of his azure eyes. However, it was altogether a suspicion he couldn't yet understand quite well of. _

_"But didn't they say that he died right after he finished that final portrayal?"_

_Arthur was silent for a brief moment. 'magnificent, I think I just made him feel dreadful' Francis thought off the rim of his mind. Arthur's face was holding back the feeling of urge to tear up, his face flushed around his cheeks and underneath his eyes. _

_"I..was sent..from heaven..." he took a halt, breathing in a few times, trying not to scream out from his pain throbbing heart. "to watch over...his last...few da..y.s..."_

_To doing a good job in holding in the agony, Arthur had dramatically begun to weep sorrowfully, his hands cupped over his swollen eyes. He had to let out all of the tearful memories he unknowingly left behind or else he'd just be regretting everything he had done in the rightful past. _

_Arthur had fallen to his knees, letting the fewest tears drip out from his fingertips. For Francis, he only watched worried in what to do._

_As he could only hover before him, feeling wearily useless to not do anything in his part for the young man, sobbing in the former of his forgotten days._

_It was 4:32 pm in the afternoon. The sky was in immense gloom, confronted by the deep, grey thunder clouds as they roll by. The rain had began to clear up in sprinkling mist and he breeze calming to a stop._

_Arthur was seated on the yarn-rugged living room floor, staring up at the television, his eyes reddened by all the crying he had gone through. He was garbed in a long, white silk nightgown, and had been warmly wrapped with the same quilt he slept in before. He had been seated for an hour, watching a classic black-and-white film 'The Red Shoes' as Francis had fallen into deep slumber on the couch without a blanket to cover him. The room glowed with the beaming citrus-tint light of the table lamp in the corner._

_However, through all the drama he had gone, he was intrigued by the acting in the movie. The way they spoke so fluently, the unmistakable gestures, and the way they filmed it without a failure in movement. _

_It was all, actors and film-making, a __**very **__fascinating view for him_

_It was now 7:36 pm at night, and the skies was now nothing much but pitch black in pure darkness, only to have one shining peek of a star._

_Francis had woke up with a pounding headache, as he placed his right hand over his heated forehead and using his left to push his laid body up from the imprinted cushions of the couch. He had shifted his legs facing out on the rim of the couch seating, and sat straight up. He picked up the slip-on socks that were folded up horribly in a rush, laid on the floor, and pulled them onto both of his feet after fixing them back into their proper fold. Standing up, he bent his back for a crack, and meeting that, he let out a heavy sigh. 'It was probably just some dream' he thought lazily. 'or at the most, a very __**long**__ dream' Believing in his inner-self conscious, he walked his way to the entrance of the kitchen, hoping and hoping that the angel hadn't been in his house. He walked around the counter with a dismay in turn, creeping on the side edge of the counter decorated with a shelf of assorted wine bottles and cabinets for storing plates and bowls. _

_For he hoped to be dream, wasn't what came to be. _

_He saw the dumbfounded blonde making the hugest mess he could have imagined. This angel had experience on Earth before right? Why isn't he capable of making an ever-so-simple cup of tea? Surely even in the past, there was tea around..right? It was all pointless to watch. The man had been spilling -or more like wasting- tons of water all over the countertop, four-six lemon tea bags ripped and laying in the lukewarm puddles of liquids, and an overflowing coffee cup that is at a light-brown tint of tea. It's like over-looking a failure project, where there is an unstable mess and a frustrated worker continuing the disaster. Yes, definitely the perfect observation to what this 'masterpiece' was going through with. For yet Francis lead out another deep sigh, only more irritated, and walked out of his hiding. _

_There was no use, this Brit was going to be here for a __**very**__, very long time._

_Arthur had notice the Frenchman make slow steps out of the corner and frowned bitterly. _

_"G-good morning"_

_Francis stared him down in the 'you're are an idiot' kind of look. His hair was tied up sloppy-like and had raised his hands to his hips._

_"What's all this, monsieur?"_

_"Let me explain..."_

_"please do so"_

_The rose-top blonde rolled his eyes bothered. Sure, he appeared to be in a bit of a trouble, but he can't be yelled for it! In the past, you only had to place leaves in hot water, not some tea-powder pouch attached to a string and having to leave it in the cup for five minutes. It was cheaply instant and for him to be in this now modern society, he had to get used to very unlikely new objects. It was like the elderly having to give in to the somewhat 'better' ways of life and leaving the old niches of their pasts behind._

_"These odd pouches smelled very similar to the tea leaves I used to drink Eduard, but I'm not so sure how I use-_

_(side note: Eduard Von Bock is the artist of Arthur, but you will soon learn of another painting he created that will change the courses of not only Arthur, but Francis's life as well. Keep that in mind as a hint for you to predict upcoming chapters..)._

_"What do you mean you're not sure how to use it? All you have to do it unwrap the paper, get the cup of hot water, and place the tea pouch in the cup..one of the most easiest tasks you will ever go through.." _

_"So I was right! This strange powdery substance __**is **__tea indeed!"_

_Francis placed his hand to his face. 'This man is going to be so much trouble around the house' Next thing he knew, he will be tearing pages out of his textbooks and making origami. Now __**that**__ would most likely tick him off in one go. _

_He gave up trying to make the life-experiencing youth understand his whereabouts, and decided to change the subject of recent thoughts he had come to mind._

_"Arthur, what might have you been doing while I was sleeping, hm?"_

_Arthur had dropped the teabag he held into the cup with light flecks of tea spewing out the rim, clasping both of his hands together in an odd flicker of delight._

_"Oh! Mr. Bonnefoy, I-_

_"Just call me by Francis, Arthur.."_

_"Yes, Francis, have you ever been interested in the career of acting?"_

_Francis gazed wide-eyed in a more surprised look. 'acting? what is with this sudden change of course?'_

_"I'm more of an artist, that you must know Arthur. Are you however interested in acting?"_

_Francis was staggered to see Arthur's emerald eyes lighten up like a twinkle of shine._

_"oh yes! very much! I had been watching this so called 'film' titled 'The Red Shoes' it was astonishing"_

_Francis looked back, and found it. Yes, The Red Shoes, a classic film. Arthur was really interested in an acting career that much just after watching that movie?_

_"so because of this film you loved, you are now fascinated in the role of acting?"_

_Arthur tilted his head to the side and Francis was already lowering his lids. 'how is he confused by me asking him this question?'_

_"Is it bad that I like acting this much?"_

_Francis blinked. 'wait, that's what he was senile about?' Francis, unknowing to his actions, let a grin spread across to his cheeks._

_"No, that's not it.."_

_"Then if it's good, what is the problem?"_

_Francis let his hands slip into his pockets and tightened his arms to a shrug of unsurely minded._

_"Well, sometimes in this modern day, people never really know what they like or want to do in their future. I'm just wanting to know whether you feel like you __**really **__can take up the career of acting.."_

_Arthur sprung up to Francis's words as if a bit of faith had struck him in hopes._

_"Wait, do you mean I can actually do this 'acting' myself as well?"_

_"Well, you seem to be at a willing age to do so. I mean, you might not start off as one of those 'famous' actresses, but there is a theatre down the street that takes in new roles every now and then.."_

_Arthur paused quickly and Francis had dropped his broad shoulders to slouched. 'what didn't make sense this time?' his mind wondered in sarcastic manner. _

_"what exactly is a 'theatre'?"_

_Francis let put an exhale of breath. 'should have known this question to come'_

_"A theatre is a building with a very expanded stage across one wall to the other and has many seats amongst view. People take roles of a character from a story and act out the following scripts in how that person would speak. After they practice as much as they can, they perform the acting in-front of millions of people"_

_Arthur's eyes were spacious as he listened. Now he was not only in astonishment, but in awe. He wanted to know more not only about the world, but the true art in acting itself._

_"Could I really take part in such an amazing type of event?"_

_Francis couldn't help but let out a chuckle to how stupefy Arthur had looked from his sight. _

_"of course, as long as you have much courage, I'm sure you'd be able to come through with it all"_

_Arthur led out a smile and clapped his hands in a gullible expression that made Francis widely expose a simper across his face._

_'what a child this man is..stubborn, yet very exuberant..'_

_Info__

_Eduard Von Bock - human name for Estonia's character_

_Translations :_

_Monsieur - usually a term for 'sir' or 'gentleman'. It's known to refer to men._

_Author's note: so, not sure how well this chapter went, but as you can see, Francis is getting the hang of having this 'angel' along his side although he doesn't know much and the fact he is very irritated by how many obvious questions Arthur may ask._

_I thought giving Arthur a middle name will make things a bit different than the most ways people hear Arthur's name as. I thought 'Elsen' was rather decent.._

_Oh, and Arthur's personality is a bit childish right now. But trust me, he will get to his usual stubborn personality later on as he learns more about the world and Francis will learn a bit more about where Arthur had came from other than a simple term 'from out of a painting'._


End file.
